


Tying Up Loose Ends

by chibistarlyte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Kink Meme, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Red String of Fate, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most everyone has a red thread attached to their finger, tying them to their soul mate. Sherlock wants nothing more than to meet his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the longest fills I've ever worked on for the kink meme. Still unfinished, but I have up through chapter 4 written and up through chapter 3 beta'd, so I figured I may as well start posting outside of the meme itself. I will still update on the meme before I update here, though; only once the chapters are beta'd will I post them here.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta Aki. This hasn't been Brit-picked, so feel free to point out any errors and blatant Americanisms to me. Also, thanks to janebrave for prompting this on the meme. I hope to do this prompt some justice.
> 
> Enjoy!

“They have to be older than me, because I’ve had my thread since I was born. My thread is always loose; it never pulls, so they have to be close by, at least somewhere in the country. That means I have a better chance of meeting them. Right, Mycroft?”

“Mhm,” the elder Holmes responded disinterestedly, not bothering to look up from his studies. He marked a few notes down in his notebook before turning a page in his textbook.

Eight-year-old Sherlock frowned, his bottom lip protruding until the frown became a full-on pout. “You aren’t even listening,” he accused his older brother, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

“Sherlock, I’m reading.”

“But I was making deductions, just like you taught me!”

“You can tell me about your deductions when I’m not studying. I have exams next week,” Mycroft said, exasperated, giving his younger brother a pointed look. It was the look Mycroft inherited from their father, the look that could burn holes through brick. Sherlock just glared right back before flopping down on his brother’s giant bed.

He held his left hand up in front of his face, pale eyes examining the thin red thread tied around his pinkie finger. His soul mate would probably listen to his deductions. Call them brilliant and fantastic, even, not ignore them like Mycroft or scold him for them like Mummy and Father. No, his soul mate would love his deductions always and never insist that he keep his thoughts to himself, tell him that it was best to keep his mouth shut if he couldn’t say nice things. He would give anything to meet his soul mate, to be appreciated and admired. He’d even give up his chemistry set that Mummy had gotten him for his birthday.

Letting out a forlorn sigh, Sherlock let his hand fall until it was splayed across his face. The warmth of his thread caressed his cheek.

“Do you have yours yet, Mycroft? Your thread?” he asked somewhat absently.

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the scratching sound of graphite on paper. Sherlock thought his question had gone unheard by his brother—always busy with his studies and never any fun anymore, the sod—and was about to repeat it when Mycroft finally answered him.

“No.”

Something unpleasant and completely unfamiliar tugged at the younger Holmes’ heartstrings. Was this what pity felt like? Just that monosyllabic word was enough to elicit an emotion in Sherlock he never thought he’d ever direct at his brother. In that moment, he felt _sorry_ for Mycroft.

He couldn’t imagine not having a soul mate, not having that one fated meeting to look forward to. He couldn’t fathom going through the motions of life without that one ultimate goal in mind, finally finding the person you were meant to be with forever.

“You are very lucky, Sherlock,” Mycroft went on to say, though the tone with which he spoke gave the impression that this discussion was officially over.

Sherlock quietly left Mycroft’s room and headed for his own down the hall, his thread dragging on the floor behind him.

 

.

 

It was his fault.

It was _all his fault._

But he didn’t understand.

Mummy and Father were soul mates. Both of them had confirmed it long ago in response to their youngest son’s insatiable curiosity that their threads were one and the same. Connected to each other, linked by some force of destiny far beyond their control. A soul mate was that one person in life meant to be loved and cherished until the end of time. A bond that could never be severed, even by the sharpest of blades.

So why did Father throw that all away?

The silence that followed was deafening in its entirety. When Sherlock opened the door to his father’s office, when he saw her wrapped in his father’s arms and sucking on his lips and tugging at his dark hair, everything went quiet and still. The scene was caught in a freeze frame, none of them daring or willing to wade through the fog of tension that settled about the room. Then the play button was pressed and Sherlock bolted, unable to accept what he’d just discovered. Unable to believe what his ever-observant eyes had just seen.

It was when he told Mummy that everything just went straight to hell.

And no matter how deeply he burrowed into his blankets, or how hard he pressed his pillows to his ears, or how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn’t block out the sound of Mummy and Father screaming at each other downstairs. He couldn’t quell the burning in his chest. He couldn’t stop the tears from breaching his eyelids and soaking into his sheets.

He was angry. Angry and upset and unbearably hurt. He hated Father. _Hated_ him.

In his desperation, he’d even sought out Mycroft for comfort, but his brother provided none—only told him that was how things were, and that was the end of it.

Sherlock decided, right then and there, that his soul mate would never do what Father did to Mummy. His soul mate would never betray him like that. His soul mate would never even think about ripping his heart out the way Father ripped out Mummy’s heart. His soul mate would love him always, no matter what, and never, ever think of cheating on him. And Sherlock would never do something so horrible to his soul mate.

When the shouting finally quieted, when the house finally fell silent and tense and waiting, Sherlock finally lost his battle against sleep. He dreamt of the day he’d finally meet his soul mate, and all of this pain would just go away.

 

.

 

“This is the third time this month, Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh, crossing one long leg over the other as he fixed his younger brother with an expectant stare. Sherlock ignored it completely.

“Mummy will not be happy about this.”

Sherlock just sank deeper into the backseat of the car, arms crossed, fingers idly fiddling with his thread. His glare was acidic enough to burn holes through the floor, even from just the one eye. His other eye was swollen almost completely shut, ringed by several shades of black and purple. The sleeves of his school uniform’s blazer hid the other cuts and bruises on his arms. It had gotten to the point where he didn’t feel the pain anymore. All he felt was burning hatred, unadulterated enmity towards every single student, teacher, _person_ in his godforsaken school.

They were all so bloody stupid, the lot of them.

“My soul mate wouldn’t have let this happen,” Sherlock muttered, a pathetic attempt at backtalk. Half of him wanted to open the door and shove Mycroft and his dumb umbrella out of the car, and the other half wanted to jump out himself.

“Sherlock, you have got to stop putting so much stock in someone you will most likely never meet,” Mycroft said, his voice level and cold, cutting through Sherlock like ice. He visibly flinched, but Mycroft continued nonetheless. “You cannot keep relying on someone you have never even met to get you out of the trouble that you get yourself into. There is no knight in shining armor that is going to come rescue you. You must take responsibility for yourself and let go of these childish fantasies.”

At the next red light, Sherlock let himself out of the car and stomped down the sidewalk. He ignored Mycroft calling his name, ignored the honking of the car horn, ignored the swelling pain in his chest and the tears building in his tear ducts because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he did _not_ cry. He was going to find his soul mate, he really was. Fuck Mycroft and fuck everyone else. Even if it killed him, he would not give up. Ever.

He just kept going and did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, more angst!
> 
> I may expand on the Victor Trevor bit in a separate fic, if I ever get the urge. We'll see.
> 
> Again, many thanks to Aki for being my beta! Still hasn't been Brit-picked. Any errors and Americanisms are my own fault.

Sherlock didn’t understand the concept of dating. Why waste time cultivating a relationship and forging a bond with someone who wasn’t a soul mate? Of course there were the exceptions, those who did find the one person on the other end of their thread early on at uni. But most of the population wasn’t that lucky, and yet they still had boyfriends and girlfriends and Sherlock had no clue why anyone would go through all that trouble for someone who wasn’t their perfect match.

Then he met Victor.

Victor Trevor was the unlucky soul that ended up sharing a room with Sherlock in the second term of Sherlock’s first year—the first one left halfway through last term after a rather unfortunate incident involving the toilet and some highly volatile chemicals. Sherlock was sure that Victor would request a room transfer about a month in, that he would be unable to endure Sherlock’s horrible antics, but…things didn’t quite pan out that way.

He actually _liked_ spending time with Victor. And oddly enough, Victor liked spending time with him, too.

Sherlock Holmes actually had someone he could call a friend.

It was late one night, the room immersed in total darkness save for the minimal light coming in from the window. Sherlock was lying on his bed, the covers not even turned down yet, just staring at the thread attached to his pinkie. He had been so sure that he would never experience infatuation towards someone other than his soul mate, but the more he got to know Victor, the stronger his feelings became. His crush on his roommate was becoming something more than that. Maybe…love?

No. No, of course not. Sherlock could never, ever fall in love with someone who wasn’t his soul mate.

…Could he?

“Think you’ll ever meet them?”

Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts by Victor’s voice coming from the doorway. The other boy stepped further into the room, leaving the lights off. Sherlock watched his darkened form navigate about the room, setting his bag down and toeing off his shoes before settling on the opposite bed.

“I hope to, one day,” Sherlock answered truthfully after a long silence.

“I’ve given up on meeting mine,” Victor said from across the room. Pale eyes glanced over, watched as Victor tucked his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “So many people get hung up on meeting their soul mate that they become blind to what’s happening in their lives. I don’t want to be like that, you know?”

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a response, just returned to messing with his own thread. He tugged on it a little, letting his fingertips caress the smoothness of the thread. It felt silky, and much thicker than he remembered it being a short while ago. Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered just where his thread would lead him. Was his soul mate searching for him? God, he hoped so.

In the meantime, though, at least he had Victor to keep him company. At least until Victor met his soul mate near the end of term and broke off contact completely. Sherlock tried to convince himself that he was okay with it, that now he didn’t have a distraction to keep him from his own soul mate.

It took more convincing than he would ever admit.

 

.

 

He had no idea where he was, or how he ended up there. The last thing he remembered was the momentary pain of a needle prick followed by the almost impossible bliss that flooded through his system. He’d been on top of the world, if only for a short time. But it didn’t matter. The feeling would return after his next hit, and God was he craving it.

Sherlock’s skin was crawling, like it was trying to permanently detach itself from his bones. His muscles twitched with involuntary spasms that he just couldn’t quell for the life of him. He staggered a little as he stood, finding himself with the desperate need to get the hell out of the alleyway before something happened. He looked over his shoulder the whole way back to the street.

He really ought to take some time and memorize London, he decided. Then he wouldn’t get himself into these situations. At the very least, he’d be able to find his way around.

Once he was back in the brightness of the light posts lining the street, Sherlock slumped against a wall and dug around his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter. His hands fumbled and shook as he tried to get a proper light, and it took more than a few flicks of the lighter to get the flame to stick. He drew in a deep breath through the filter and his entire body gave a pleasured shudder as the nicotine hit his system.

Where was he going to sleep tonight? He idly wondered as he puffed on his cigarette, watching people mill about the streets.

The lights before his eyes started spinning, dancing in his vision. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to try and dispel the disturbance, only to find his sight a bit blurred when he opened his eyes again. His empty stomach churned angrily, a heavy weight starting to take hold of his limbs. He was running out of fuel, at this point running on nothing but the adrenaline and foreign substances in his veins.

There was a loud crash, followed by a roar of raucous laughter. A group of six men in their mid-twenties all took turns stumbling out of the pub across the road, one of them knocking into a metal waste bin outside the door. The source of the crash, he surmised. They were all talking way too loudly, their words punctuated by their obnoxious laughs and random shouts of triumph. Sherlock couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, only a few medical terms here and there. Med school students, then.

Stupid, drunken idiots.

Sherlock dropped his cigarette to the concrete and squished it with his shoe. He glanced down to ensure that he’d snuffed the embers out, but his eyes caught his thread. Funny. He’d forgotten it was even there.

Even funnier, it led across the road, lying loosely on the pavement, woven right into the pack of morons stumbling over themselves on the sidewalk. That was weird.

Sherlock’s already hammering heart beat in double time. The closer he looked, he noticed the end of his thread tied to the pinkie of one of the wasted men—the shortest one, with cropped blonde hair and a pleasant flush dusting his cheeks. He was laughing along with the rest of them, his smile radiant enough to outshine even the bright street lights.

He thought about running across the street. He really did. But his knees buckled beneath him and Sherlock sank to the ground, the edges of his vision blurring and growing blacker by the second. He let out a gurgled groan before falling into a dead faint on the sidewalk.

 

.

 

Had Sherlock been in a better mood, he would have cherished the look of surprise on his brother’s face. Of all the things Mycroft could have expected to come home to, it definitely wouldn’t have been a brooding Sherlock waiting for him on the sofa in his office.

“It’s certainly been a while, dear brother,” Mycroft said after a long pause spent gathering his wits. “Six months, if I remember correctly? You really should visit more.”

Sherlock wasted no time with pleasantries. His patience was too far gone by that point. “I saw him, Mycroft.”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.” The elder Holmes slid easily into his leather office chair, swiveling around to meet Sherlock’s bloodshot glare.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know who I’m talking about,” the younger man bit back, seething. Despite his blurred vision and the ringing in his ears, he kept his focus solely on his brother. He was angry at himself for even considering coming to Mycroft for help, but he was _desperate_.

Mycroft studied him with the same penetrating look that Sherlock often gave other people, the one trait they both shared that Sherlock didn’t resent. “Your soul mate,” said Mycroft, finally. “And you lost track of him.”

“Precisely.”

“Tell me, then, Sherlock. Why are you here?”

Sherlock snorted. So, he was going to play _that_ game, was he? Make Sherlock ask him outright, possibly even beg for help.

“I need you to find him,” Sherlock answered, tone clipped and cutting. He was well aware that he was in no position to ask Mycroft for any favours, considering their irreparably damaged relationship. But if anyone could help him in his endeavour, it would be Mycroft.

“No,” was Mycroft’s simple reply.

The cold stare shared between the brothers was enough to drop the temperature in the room a few degrees.

“No?” Sherlock parroted back, not entirely ready to handle his brother’s unwillingness to help him.

“No. I cannot help you.”

“Surely you can do _something_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock was reaching a strange halfway point between rage and panic. His bones rattled as shakes coursed through his body. His heart rate skyrocketed, his palms were clammy and sweaty. He grit his teeth as he spoke. “I know what he looks like, I know he’s in medical school, that should be enough—“

“What you’re asking is an impossibility, Sherlock. The search could take months, and there is no guarantee that I will be able to find him. There is only so much I can do, and I’m afraid this will be a meaningless effort.” Mycroft reclined in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other.

Sherlock was standing and slamming his fists into the desk before Mycroft even realized he’d moved. “You’re lying. I _know_ you can find him, Mycroft. You’re the British government, for God’s sake!”

Instead of cowing under Sherlock’s anger, Mycroft just shook his head and met his brother with a steady gaze. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.”

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was Sherlock’s laboured breathing, sharp and heavy sounds that could have been mistaken for sobs.

“I hope you choke on cake,” Sherlock spat before storming out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

.

 

Soaring through the clouds wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch the moon, dance on Saturn’s rings, taste stardust in his mouth. When he attained all that he wanted, it still wasn’t enough. The moon was just a dull piece of rock, Saturn’s rings tripped up his feet, stardust turned to ash on his tongue. Nothing could satisfy him anymore. Colours bled away, leaving everything in greyscale and he was sick of it.

Sherlock wanted oblivion.

At least he’d die happy, if only for a moment.

He plunged the needle into his arm, ignoring pain in favour of ecstasy. He could feel it, warm and comforting, crawling through his veins. Making him shiver from the inside out, cradling him like a mother would her child, caressing him with the intimate touches of a lover who knew him all too well.

Sounds and sights and sensations all blurred together into a mélange of madness. The scent of blue invaded his nostrils, the clacking he vaguely heard poked through his skin, the bright lights above him sang him a soft, sweet lullaby that promised an eternal sleep that he was more than ready to succumb to.

Something tightened around his left pinkie, though he couldn’t identify the feeling for the life of him. But it was suffocating, binding him, twisting around his body and squeezing tight. He felt his organs rupture, stabbing pain in his limbs, and he could have sworn he was screaming but no sound fell past his lips.

There was a blinding light before everything went dark and still.

He took a deep breath and suddenly, everything was in vivid colour and he could do nothing but sink back into the darkness that welcomed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been written but unbeta'd for quite some time. I really appreciate my amazing beta Aki for taking the time to look this over for me.
> 
> The first two chapters will also be undergoing some minor edits, and the next chapter has also been beta'd. It should be up within another week. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and enjoy this chapter!

It was his forty-seven-second death that finally pushed Sherlock into rehab.

Going through withdrawal, all things considered, was the easiest part. Sure, all the aches and shakes were miserable to experience at the onset, but it only took about a week and a half for the physical symptoms to subside. The rest of the time, Sherlock mostly slept through it. With all he’d put his body through, the thing he labeled as “merely transport” was exhausted.

What affected him the most during his detox was the state of his mind. Staying cooped up in the rehabilitation clinic was driving him mad. He couldn’t focus on anything, and his anxiety levels hit all new highs. His daily meetings with his assigned counselor and the group therapy sessions did little to help his addled brain, and so he spent most of his time inside his own head trying to sort everything out.

It killed Sherlock when he discovered he couldn’t recall what his soul mate looked like. He knew he’d seen him that one night over a month ago, but he couldn’t bring a face to mind. He remembered nothing of his physical features—his hair, his eyes, his height, his build. Not a bloody thing.

It was then that Sherlock decided that he would create a place inside his head where he could store away information. Important information, not useless trivia that he wouldn’t ever need to recall. What started out as a small room of knowledge slowly grew and expanded the further he retreated into his mind. It was like his own self-imposed therapy, since none of the coping techniques taught to him by the actual professionals were working for him.

In building this mental castle of sorts for himself and his thoughts, Sherlock swore he would never forget anything important ever again. He just hoped to some indistinct deity that he hadn’t ruined his only chance at ever meeting his soul mate.

The day before his release from rehab, Sherlock’s thread pulled taut and strained.

 

.

 

Mycroft was waiting for him in that infernal black car of his, parked right outside the clinic as if it had every right to be there.

Quite possibly for the first time in his life, Sherlock just didn’t have the energy to put up a fight against his brother. He listlessly gripped the door handle and pulled, sliding himself into the back seat where the elder Holmes was already perched.

“Welcome back, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted calmly, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Sherlock gave a little grunt in acknowledgement, not bothering to dignify that with a proper response.

The drive was mostly silent, both brothers lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock watched London pass by outside the tinted windows of the car, his ever-observant eyes carefully catching every detail possible. Details that could be stored in his new mental construct. He even had a special place in this hard drive of sorts labeled “London.” Organization was key after all, seeing as Sherlock planned on storing as much relevant information as he possibly could.

He did briefly access the folder he labeled as “Mycroft” about forty-five minutes into the drive. Still neither of them had said a word to one another, and Sherlock certainly wasn’t in a hurry to change that. Even so, he was still disturbed by one single bit of information he’d kept after all these years. Mycroft once told him that he hadn’t had a thread. Told Sherlock he was lucky to have his. He wondered if it was different now—they hadn’t spoken about it at all since that day so many years ago. Yet he had the sudden urge to talk about it now, right at this very moment.

Keeping his eyes trained on the sights outside, Sherlock decided to finally break the silence. “I think I lost him, Mycroft.”

The elder Holmes inclined his head towards his younger brother, eyeing him suspiciously. “So you’ve mentioned,” he said coolly, tapping the end of his umbrella against the floor of the car. “Hence your request that I find him.”

At that, Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t mean like that. I mean, my thread’s pulled tight. He’s gone now, out of the country somewhere. I have little chance of finding him now.”

Mycroft let out a small, “ah,” at this declaration, averting his attention outside just as Sherlock turned to look at him. “He’s not gone, Sherlock. Only if your thread vanishes will he truly be gone.” A frown then settled on his usually impassive features, and he let out a long sigh. Sherlock stared at his brother, studying him. Analyzing every minute movement, the way Mycroft suddenly tensed when he realized exactly what he’d just let slip without the use of words.

“Yours is gone,” he said simply, quietly, the statement completely lacking the venom he normally spoke to Mycroft with.

“…Yes.”

And they were silent for the rest of the drive to Mycroft’s home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so much angst in this story, it's sort of ridiculous.
> 
> I've readjusted the final chapter count for this story after going over my notes and outlines. So, suffice to say, we're about halfway through now. It might be a little while until the next chapter, though. Hang in there! And, of course, thank you for all the lovely comments. I'm horrible with responding, but I read every single one. So yes, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing friend Aki for being my beta! Still not Brit-picked. If any of you know someone who would be willing, or if any of you are willing, to do some Brit-picking for me, I would really, REALLY appreciate it. I've written so much for this fandom, but I still don't have a proper grasp on British English and it makes me sad.
> 
> Enjoy!

After spending several weeks bored out of his skull, sleeping more than he'd ever slept in his life, and subsequently destroying most of Mycroft's kitchen with unsavoury experiments, Sherlock decided he needed some air.

He was on his way to some café or another when he happened to pass by a crime scene—police cars, tape barriers, various uniformed officials, everything. Curious and positively itching for something to do, Sherlock lingered just at the edge of the police tape and let his eyes roam around the scene. Valuable information invaded his senses at the speed of light—the body of a man with no outward injuries save a stab through the skull, dainty and distinct footprints in the mud, the faint scent of a perfume he immediately recognised, a loose cobblestone in the path clacking as people walked over it. All these details, so important and simple, were being destroyed by the carelessness of the police. He snorted. What idiots.

"It was the ex-wife," he called out as he turned to leave.

"Oi! What did you say?" a slightly gruff voice called out to him.

Sherlock halted his steps, pausing for a long, dramatic moment before pivoting to face the man addressing him. "I said, it was the ex-wife," he spoke slowly as if he were speaking to a child. Really, it was so _obvious_.

The man stared at him, suspicion radiating off him in waves. A tanned hand shot up to rake through dark locks peppered with silver. "How do you know that?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and gestured to the dead body sectioned off behind the police tape. "Really, do I have to spell everything out for you? The wound in his head is the result of a killing blow from a stiletto heel, the same one to leave the footprints in the mud and to loosen the stone on the path. There's also a trace of perfume in the air, a specific scent of Dior, commonly worn by women who are generally well-off. The victim divorced his ex-wife when he found his soul mate, and the ex-wife wanted vengeance. Simple. Now, if you're finished gaping, I believe you have a murderer to arrest."

And that should have been the end of it, but the man just stared at Sherlock in disbelief. Whether it was disbelief at the validity of his observations or disbelief at how quickly he'd come to said conclusion, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. But he definitely didn't like being gawked at like some sort of freak show. He'd put up with that for most of his life, and one did grow sick of these things after a time.

"Did you just lose all of your brain function?" Sherlock spat in annoyance, shooting the officer a nasty scowl. "Stop wasting time and do your job, for God's sake."

The command seemed to shock the man out of whatever stupor he'd been stuck in, and he vigorously shook his head. "Er…right," he said, still eyeing Sherlock with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty. "Thanks for the tip, Mister…?"

"Sherlock Holmes." His patience already worn thin, Sherlock turned and left without another word. He could really use some coffee.

When he received a call from one Detective Inspector Lestrade the following day asking him to Scotland Yard for some statements, an odd thought struck him. Perhaps working with the police wouldn't be such a horrible idea. He didn't strictly want to be on the force, but he could be a…consultant, of sorts. Someone the Yarders could turn to when they were completely out of their depth—which was pretty much always, if he were to be completely honest. Solving puzzles was something he was good at, and it would be something to keep the boredom away.

Maybe with this, he could turn himself into someone his soul mate could be proud of.

 

.

 

Sherlock had mixed feelings concerning his so-called coworkers. There were a few people he didn't mind, perhaps even going so far as to say he liked them; the majority of them he wasn't particularly fond of. But that was all right, he supposed, because many weren't particularly fond of him either. No surprise there.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was nice enough. Apparently he'd been so impressed with Sherlock's sideline crime solving—it was indeed the ex-wife—that he readily agreed to consult him on the more difficult cases. The man himself was a workaholic, though, as Sherlock came to discover. Troubles at home with the missus. Through further observation, Sherlock found out that Lestrade and his wife were soul mates but his wife was cheating on him with various other men. Very reminiscent of his own parents, he thought with a bitterness that should have long since diminished.

Still, Lestrade was a good man and easily the most competent of the bunch, even if Sherlock gave him grief about _everything_. Though there was some sort of balance on Lestrade's end, because he'd unconsciously assumed a role as Sherlock's surrogate father.

Molly Hooper, the mortician at St. Barts, was also quite nice. Terribly awkward and far too kind for her own good, but still nice. She, like Sherlock, hadn't met her soul mate yet. That didn't stop her from crushing on him. Hard. It was distracting to have her openly staring at him while he worked, but things could have been worse. At least she was knowledgeable and compliant with his needs and demands.

Well…easily manipulated would have probably been a better descriptor. Either way, Sherlock was able to make use of the labs whenever he pleased.

Detective Sergeant Dimmock was exactly as his name suggested—unbearably dim. A right imbecile if Sherlock had ever met one. They didn't work together very often, but the few times Sherlock did have to endure the man's stupidity he had almost torn his hair out in frustration. The man would ask Sherlock for help, then completely dismiss anything the consulting detective had to say. As much as Sherlock was used to people not listening to him, the sergeant's disregard for any type of sound logic aggravated Sherlock to no end. Dimmock hadn't met his soul mate, either, and was still actively searching. Sherlock hoped he'd never meet her, if only to spare the poor woman from having to put up with the moron.

The only person Sherlock hated more than Dimmock was Anderson, head of forensics. The two men were cut from a similar cloth, though Anderson had a sharper tongue and a more solid backbone. His entire existence was an affront to the world. Not only did Anderson practically repel reason of any kind, he was also aggressive in his plight to needle and degrade Sherlock at every opportunity. The insults that Anderson drew from Sherlock's mouth in return were foul enough to peel paint.

What really hit home, though, was that Anderson had already met and married his soul mate, and yet had the gall to sleep around with another woman—one Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Sherlock's opinion of Sally was somewhat torn down the middle. On the one hand, she was a good officer. Competent, efficient, professional. She was one of the few, like Lestrade, who actually knew what she was doing. On the other hand, she was Anderson's mistress.

This fact angered Sherlock much more than he'd ever let on.

Sally didn't have a soul mate. Her match had passed away when she was very young, and she never had another thread attach itself to her. _Like Mycroft_ , Sherlock mused, his heart heavy with a sadness he didn't dare acknowledge. She was decent enough that Sherlock didn't wish her a life of loneliness, but…

Why _Anderson_ , of all people?

She deserved so much better than that smarmy git. Sherlock didn't understand.

But these were the people he worked with, and if he wanted to continue working with Scotland Yard—doing their work for them, more like—he had to at least tolerate them.

If only he had an actual assistant to work with. It would make things so much easier in the long run, he figured. And as Sherlock continued his work as a newly-established consulting detective, he began to harbor a secret hope that his soul mate would also be his ideal work partner. Someone who would work with him, admire his brilliance, support his lifestyle, and love him unconditionally. All of it. Only then would everything be absolutely perfect.

 

.

 

He was angry.

Enraged.

_Seething._

So of course locking himself in his flat and curling up on the sofa was the best way to deal with his enmity. He even ignored Mrs. Hudson when she'd come round with a light supper and a cuppa for him a few hours ago. Sherlock was just too upset to function.

And he was _never_ too upset to function.

Really, though, he should have seen it coming long ago. With all the horrible things Anderson said to him day in and day out, he should have expected the insults to extend to the subject of his soul mate.

_"Soul mate? I'm shocked you even have one."_

_"I feel sorry for the poor sod on the end of your thread. Can you imagine the disappointment if you two ever meet?"_

_"Who would ever want to be with you?"_

Growling, Sherlock chucked a pillow across the room. In retrospect, he should have thrown a more solid object. The sound of something shattering would have been infinitely more satisfying than the muffled thump of a pillow. Especially if he imagined said object to be Anderson's gargantuan head.

He could murder Anderson in cold blood and no one would be able to trace it back to him. Of that, he was certain. Except his soul mate would most likely not approve of premeditated homicide.

What if his soul mate didn't approve of him at all?

His body going completely boneless, Sherlock slid off the sofa and onto the floor in a heap of blankets. He couldn't even bear the thought of his soul mate rejecting him, after all this time of wanting. Yearning. _Needing._

There was a tingling sensation around his pinkie finger, an unfamiliar numbing feeling in his left hand, almost like he'd had his circulation cut off and it was slowly returning with pins and needles. Startled, Sherlock yanked his arm out from under the blankets and studied his hand very, very closely in the dim light of his flat.

His thread, which had been pulled tight for the past year, now hung loosely across the floor.


End file.
